From: g9426181@mcmail.CIS.McMaster.CA (Craig Burley)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica
Subject: Submission - Vernon
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 22 Aug 1995 14:05:48 GMT
Organization: Amherst College, Amherst MA, USA
Lines: 157
Message-ID: <41co7s$sg9@amhux3.amherst.edu>
Reply-To: g9426181@mcmail.CIS.McMaster.CA (Craig Burley)
NNTP-Posting-Host: abby.amherst.edu
Keywords: mm, oral, anal
X-Moderator-Review: 7: couth (the opposite of uncouth, see)
Originator: erotica@amhux4.amherst.edu
Archive-name: vernon-c
i'd seen him around before, but couldn't remember his name, then
all of a sudden it came to me: vernon. i had to suppress a smile
when i thought that, vernon still conjures up fishing and
lunenburg for me but here he was at the studio. funny, i'd never
thought he'd be here.
i'd seen him at the art-rave once, collaborate-painting this big
canvas with swirls of green acrylic. a friend of a friend. he'd
stuck out in my mind because he was the first asian skinhead i'd
ever seen then. i thought he was chinese but i guess his last
name was nguyen so he was vietnamese.
and there he was at the studio, on the dance floor, sweating out
to some techno or other. he was still a sharp, like andrew, and
delicious thoughts of andrew bubbled up when i looked at him. the
two couldn't have been more different. andrew was about six-
seven, a blue-eyed white-headed shining soul gentler than fog.
vernon was short, slight. he undulated out there, the trance
belting out from behind my head and i nodded slowly, watching his
thighs as he swirled away from me. hot night, i was sticking to
myself as i moved in my chair, turning away, and then a voice at
my shoulder, loud over the speaker
"i remember you, but not your name..."
"craig," i replied, "you're vernon, i was looking at you on the
floor." i rested my hand on his lower back, he didn't seem to
mind. what must he think, i thought, he so slight and clean and
smooth and small and me, short hair but sideburns and gruff
smoke-voice breathing on his neck. he sat, careful not to jostle
my hand, then decided against it and leaned on the bar
overlooking barrington street. my hand rested on his belt, a big
chunky strap of leather broken well into middle age.
he wiped his head as i had an idea, drew my handkerchief from my
breast pocket and wiped his brow, mopping his sweat and then my
own. he looked at me, and it was odd because not many look up
like that into my eyes. i ran my hand through his jet hair and
felt it, slick leaving grease on my knuckles. "let's cool off,"
he said, and i followed him, having no idea what he meant. he
opened a door and mounted a stair, me under him now, head level
with him. he opened another door.
an apartment? i was surprised but realised as i saw what must
have been his art on the walls (same green swirls, same big
canvases) that he lived here. above the studio? weird. it was
cool though, he had a window air-con that blew his wet hair back
as he stood in front of it and motioned, behind his head, with a
hand.
come hither. or, enjoy the cold air...
fine, i went up to him and felt so strange as the air cut into my
face like jagged ice-blades, icicles on my eyebrows. i didn't
stop, i walked right up to him, looking at that little-boy-ass in
front of me and his shoulders, thin and defined through his white
shirt stuck like clear-coat on his arms and back. i walked right
into him. that belt again, massive resting on thin hips.
he smelled at this range, and it was clean sweat, no cigarette-
tar and hair-follicle-oil body reek like mine must have been, and
i puckered my tongue into my lips and ran a wet, wet kiss over
his soaking neck. he said nothing, just "hi craig" so soft i
thought it might be someone else behind me.
that belt had to go. it bothered me more than it might have, i
thought it had no right to be wrapped around such a small waist
and i hoped that it didn't hide a hairless boy's body, that
frightening half-remembered thing from so long ago. the buckle
was already gone, the belt hanging over his hipbones, and i
reached inside under his shirt and felt coarse stomach-hair over
flesh anvil-hard and cliff-straight and i kissed again, bit him
at the tip of his shoulder-blade, muscling my tongue in circles
against him.
still in front of the air-conditioner, cold air blasting on my
bare forehead giving me an ice-cream headache, i stripped him
slowly, he didn't move, he hardly breathed, he didn't wear shorts
and when those too-large jeans fell (button, button, button,
button) to the floor a perfect little penis smacked my palm and i
was so surprised i moved my hand away, he turned around, he
pressed it into me, slowly, hard cock to clothed crotch melting
down harder, still more.
under his clothes, his skin was darker and even in bright halogen
light he wore battle fatigues when naked, black hair like
decorations on his nipples. Here, the smell was still clean but I
only kissed his neck, working it over and over as his head
twitched when i knotted my tongue with his arteries. i pressed
him to me, feeling this light-hard body against my clothes.
"ok?"
i couldn't help asking because his eyes were closed and so help
me god, he looked like a scared seventeen in front of me, nude in
my arms like the model on the west wall.
"ok."
here he was, the perfect little southern boy of chinese lore, and
he moved my hand back to his ass, moving it within the cleft.
those buns were exactly that, oven-warm and resilient like a
baker's life-work, and he grabbed my other hand, wet it, rolled
his tongue and teeth over my fingers as if they really were
fingers, not like burly white/black boys who take them as if they
were my cock. bless this young man, i thought, he knows my hands
are hands, and i felt him nibble the tiny webs by the palm and a
rush went over me as his lips let go.
the only place he had no muscle turned out to be his pubic bone,
i let out a long yeagh of a sigh as i pressed one hand into it,
his ass at my hipbone, and those three wet fingers pressed and
fought for precedence in that warm cleft, he yielded, easily, and
with fingers crossed for eternal luck-protection, finger-fucking
him without barriers, pushed through and he cried to the skies,
sobbing upper-body twirling round as i held his basket and pushed
my arm towards his ass, and loved this. i kissed his scalp, bare
to the world like a temple monk, and loved him with these stubby
fingers. again. once more, and then he cried again as i pulled
away roughly, feeling the contraction as i left his tender-tough
body and the whoosh of air around me reminded me where i stood.
"i know why you did that," he said sharp, breathing hard, and he
scrabbled at me, my shirt still on, my fly open, me still in my
shoes, and as he stripped the rest of my cover away he ran my
cock (hard, upward...) over his angular face, into his nose, his
hair, grazing his ear, pausing to remove the woollen trousers
until he plunged in again, his rough small mouth making me jump
as he attacked my foreskin. and when i said "vernon" he knew, and
now, gentle, rolled that condom on with his quick lips, small
mouth distorted around my thickness, even so those words are
unmistakeable.
"i'm ready" was what he said, his mouth against my root. through
his pausing, i looked at the green swirls of forest against his
wall, he moved his head away, then touches his forehead to my
balls, then his words, soft,
"yes. fuck me."
__
Craig Burley Philosophy McMaster University
g9426181@mcmail.cis.mcmaster.ca or burleyc@mcmail.cis.mcmaster.ca
"Is gravy always a liquid? Why not a cloud? A brown cloud of gaseous
gravy, floating out of the kitchen..." -Russell Edson
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